The 2013 Playoffs - A Pirates Fan's Perspective
Don’t even pretend that you know.
Don’t tell me you root for a football or basketball team that was atrocious for years, because it’s not the same. Don’t even tell me you rooted for some other baseball team with some sort of losing streak, because there’s no way it’s the same. Don’t even pretend.
Don’t pretend that you know what it’s like to root for a team that got an out away from the World Series and then blew up and lost the core of that successful squad. Don’t pretend you lost a Barry Bonds, a Jose Bautista, a Jason Bay, a Nate McClouth—guys who struggled wearing the black and gold and turned their careers around elsewhere.
Don’t pretend that you spent 21 years in misery, sinking slowly into the mire and the basement of all of baseball, becoming the laughing stock of the league. Don’t pretend you know what it’s like to have Freddy Sanchez, Jack Wilson, Paul Maholm, and Jack Wilson (again) lead your team in WAR in four different years, essentially meaning they are your best player.
Don’t pretend you know the pain of perpetually being a seller, dishing off your best players every July for a bunch of prospects that may never pan out, realizing you may never have a core group of players.
Don’t pretend you know what it’s like that in that span of 21 years, sometimes .500 was never even sniffed.
But most of all, don’t pretend that—in the span of those difficult, painful years—you know what it’s like to be well over .500, ready to finally break the curse, only to tank and have the season ruined by fatigue and overuse of pitching rotation and bullpen.
Don’t pretend you know what it’s like, because you don’t.
Forgive me if I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder in my tone, because I probably do. But there is no misery like that of being a Pirates fan between 1992 and 2012. I was born in 1990, so when they were still good, I knew nothing about baseball. But since I can remember turning on baseball, my grandpa (who lives in Franklin, PA, one hour north of Pittsburgh) and I would watch the games. So ever since I knew what baseball was, I’ve rooted for the Pirates. Jason Kendall was my favorite player, and it seemed like we were always playing the Milwaukee Brewers. I hated them because they always beat us. I still hate them.
This year, I hate the Reds and the Cardinals a little more than usual.
The Reds have been Big Brother for a little too long, especially living in the heart of Reds country, where everyone you know roots for the Kentucky Wildcats, Cincinnati Bengals, and those (expletive) Cincinnati Reds. I’ve always heard how much better they are than everyone. How great Joey Votto is, and how he’s the best player in the league; how their rotation is so deadly; how they’re so scrappy and have suffered injuries, etc. I suffer their homering announcers on local radio because I just love baseball so much that I have to listen to whatever I can get around here (especially when they play the Pirates.) I suffered hearing Homer Bailey face the Pirates after his no-hitter while the announcers speculated about his chances to repeat against my beloved Buccos.
No.
When PNC Park blacked out for Monday night’s game, I felt I was there as I heard Dan Schulman and Orel Hersheiser call the game on ESPN Radio, I heard the chants of “CUEEEEEEEEEEEE-TO! CUEEEEEEEEE-TO! CUEEEEEEEEE-TO!” and the cheers as he dropped the ball right before he threw it right in the sweet spot for Russel Martin, who belted it into deep left center field. My thoughts during the game were just that this was deserved: that the Reds had their time, I was sick of hearing how great they were. It’s time for my club to shine. It’s our turn. Essentially, there was some sort of mix-up at the hospital and we were no longer little brother.
We’re Big Brother now. Reds, you can go home.
The Cardinals, who gave me the best World Series of my life so far, have been our nemesis this year, and as a Pirates fan, it was easy to feel hard done by losing the division to them. The Cardinals, who I have tons of respect for—it’s a great organization that’s built for long-term success, it’s managed well, coached well, etc. Usually beating the Cardinals meant nothing (I don’t have the geographical bias against them like I do the Reds) but this year, it means everything. I almost feel like the Cardinals are Achilles—a legendary club with a storied past and great reputation, and we are his Prince Hector—two great warriors, and it’s a shame one has to lose, but in the eyes of the viewer (assuming we are talking about the film Troy here) we are the good guys, they are the bad.
When we won our 82nd game, it felt like everything else we got this year would be a bonus. Let’s be realistic—who thought the Pittsburgh Pirates would make the postseason? But then we won 83, and 84, and 85 (and so on until 94) and got home field after sweeping the Reds in their ballpark. The Wild Card game took on a strange dynamic. On one hand, it was still indeed a bonus, and a part of me felt I shouldn’t get too excited because we may just lose and it’d all be over.
But then I thought, “If we lose, it’s over. We can’t lose. We won’t lose.” Somehow my mentality had shifted from survival to aggression, and I no longer felt like we needed to hang around—it feels more now like we have to make a statement. It feels now like we have to fight for the city of Pittsburgh, and ultimately the game of baseball. Call it a product of the narrative surrounding the Pirates this year, but any ending to the season that doesn’t involve my Buccos lifting the World Series trophy just seems wrong on a moral level. Who are the Cardinals, the Dodgers, the Braves, the Red Sox, the Tigers, Athletics, Indians, or Rays to try and stand in the way of the Family?
This isn’t just about making the playoffs anymore—we are here. This isn’t about survival. It’s about winning. It’s about getting rid of every obstacle that tries to stand in our way. Nobody else knows what these last 21 years have been like. By God, it’s our turn.
Welcome to Buctober.











